


Jonsa Drabbles

by annabeth_writes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 00:12:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18712564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_writes/pseuds/annabeth_writes
Summary: Small fics I've posted to tumblr in response to prompts.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can send a prompt if you like, at my tumblr blog snowsinthenorth.

When he woke to the sound of light tapping on his door, Jon’s first thought was of rats, though they were rare within the walls of Winterfell. Then he heard a low hiss of his name and staggered from his bed with a groan, knowing exactly who he’d see on the other side as he yanked on a pair of breeches. Sure enough, it was the faces of his younger siblings that greeted him when he unlatched the door and pulled it open.

“Seven hells,” he said, rubbing at his eyes as if Arya and Bran would fade away if he did it long enough. “What are you two doing up at this hour?”

“It’s Sansa’s birthday.”

Jon dropped his hand at Bran’s unsatisfying explanation, wondering why in the name of the gods that would bring them to his door. He saw a plate of lemoncakes in his younger brother’s hands and suddenly understood.

“You’re surprising her?” he asked, his annoyance fading.

They’d always tried to do something special for their cousin on her nameday, knowing that she would not have the same feasts and celebrations as them.

“We’re bloody well trying,” Arya huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “But we can’t find her.”

That certainly got Jon’s attention. He glanced between them, wondering if this was some jest. Their eyes reflected only solemn concern.

“Get Robb,” Jon said as he retreated into his chambers to dress in a hurry, pulling on yesterday’s tunic and shoving his feet into boots as quickly as he could.

Arya darted away to wake their brother. None of them wanted to alert their father or mother. Not if it would get their cousin in any sort of trouble. Jon stepped out into the corridor and grabbed a torch from the wall as he heard Robb’s equally exhausted voice questioning what Arya wanted. Moments later, he heard scrambling just before Robb staggered out as well, clasping a cloak about his shoulders and following close on Jon’s heels as they made their way through the Great Keep.

“Where would she be?” Robb wondered as they hurried out to the courtyard.

They all looked to Jon and he let out a sigh, closing his eyes just briefly. In truth, there were a number of places where Sansa might be. She made a habit of hiding when they were younger, especially when visiting lords were around. She hated being a spectacle to them. Sansa Snow. The bastard of House Stark. The shame of House Dayne. But she hadn’t hidden in years.

For all the beauty she inherited from her mother, it was her father’s temper that burned within her, or so Jon heard. He could see it in her eyes when she grew angry, those violet depths expressing every thought that flew through her mind. No, he hadn’t seen her hide in years. She simply turned that beautiful gaze on any man that whispered slander and silently dared him to repeat such words aloud.

They rarely ever did.

Jon thought of the broken tower, where she used to read in isolation. Or the stables, where she would brush every horse and weave their manes into braids no matter the loyal men of House Stark that laughingly cursed her for it. Perhaps she was on the battlements, where the wind whipped at her dark hair and her slight form stood trembling in the cold, yet too stubborn to retreat from it. She may even be in the godswood, the only place she ever prayed.

With a few words, he sent his siblings running in different directions, Robb heading for the godswood, Arya for the battlements, and Bran for the stables. Yet as he stepped towards the broken tower, something stilled him in place. The thought that she would hide where no one expected. The one place she never visited. Where no one would think to look for her. Jon stood in conflict, wondering if he might truly find her down there.

His feet carried him towards the crypts before he could truly make up his mind. The torch in his hand sent flickering light bouncing off of the walls as he made his way down the steps and through the winding maze that held centuries of dead Starks. It wasn’t until he saw another light ahead that he knew he was right. She wouldn’t expect to be found down here but he had the oddest sense that there was another reason for her presence.

As he neared, he saw her shadowed form sitting on the ground, her head tilted up towards the statue that stood over the resting place of Brandon Stark, his uncle and her father. She didn’t even look as he neared, moving only to bring what he recognized as a skin of wine to her lips. It wasn’t like Sansa to drink. Their father hardly ever allowed it and even then, she always wrinkled her nose at the taste.

“How did you find me?”

Her voice was hoarse, as if she’d been crying. He had the feeling that was exactly the case.

“I just knew where to look,” Jon said, setting his own torch in the wall a few feet away from the one she brought before lowering himself to sit next to her.

She didn’t look his way, simply passing the skin of wine over before pulling her knees up to her chest beneath the simple grey woolen gown that she wore. Her hair was braided over her shoulder, wisps of it falling out to frame her face. Jon stared at her for a long few moments, the thought striking him that she looked beautiful even in the midst of her melancholy.

“Bran and Arya came to find you,” he said before taking a healthy drink of the Arbor Gold. “They wanted to surprise you.”

A faint smile pulled at her lips before disappearing just as quickly.

“I know,” Sansa said, glancing at him only to look away again. “I heard them whispering about it a few days ago.”

“They have lemoncakes.”

She took a deep breath, her eyes falling closed as she leaned her head back against the wall.

“I don’t want to celebrate,” Sansa admitted, a slight hitch in her voice. “I didn’t have the heart to tell them.”

“Why?” Jon asked.

She didn’t answer, shaking her head slightly before opening her eyes again.

“I’ve never seen it until now,” she said, gazing up at the statue again. “I just wanted to before…”

Jon’s heart dropped at her words, hearing something that gave him a strange sense of foreboding.

“Before what?” he asked.

Sansa looked at him, her eyes dark as his own in the dim light.

“He doesn’t look how I imagined,” she admitted, her hand lifting just before she brushed her fingers lightly over his cheek. “I thought he might favor you or Uncle Ned.”

Jon stared at her, unable to let go of his suspicions.

“Before what?” he said again, his voice barely above a whisper.

He feared her answer, though he knew that he needed to hear it. Sansa pulled her hand away quickly as her eyes filled with unshed tears. Before he knew it, she pushed to her feet and paced away from him, keeping her back turned. Jon stood as well, watching as her arms wrapped around her middle as if to hold herself together.

“I’m leaving, Jon.”

His stomach twisted at her words, a chill curling down his spine as he took a step forward.

“No.”

Sansa inhaled at the sound of his denial, tilting her head back towards the stone ceiling above them.

“You know that I must,” she said, her voice trembling. “Everyone does. I’m eight and ten now. There’s no place for me here.”

“That’s not true,” Jon said.

She whirled around, taking him by surprise at her sudden movement.

“Yes it is!”

Her shout echoed through the crypts. Jon swallowed hard at the grief etched upon her face.

“I have no future here,” Sansa said, advancing towards him. “I’m an orphaned bastard. Your father did his duty and protected me when I was a child but I have no right to burden him for the rest of his days. Uncle Ned should not have to live with  _his_  mistake.”

Her hand flung out, pointing at her father’s statue. Jon did not flinch even as she glared up at him, standing his ground.

“No one wants you to leave,” he said in a low voice.

She let out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking her head.

“As if anyone would say if they did,” Sansa said, turning away from him once more.

Jon lurched forward, wrapping his hand around her arm to still her in place.

“ _I_  do not want you to leave.”

Sansa stared at him with round eyes, her lips slightly parted in surprise. Then she blinked and wrenched away from him, staggering back a step. When he reached out to steady her, she evaded his touch and scowled at him.

“So what?” Sansa demanded, lifting her chin defiantly. “I remain here? A blight on the honor of the Starks? Keeping to the shadows? Watching as you marry a beautiful highborn woman when I-I…”

Jon’s throat went dry, his heart picking up pace in his chest at her words. As much as he wanted to hear the rest of her words, he did not have to ask her to say it. He knew her heart as well as he knew his own. They let it go unspoken, knowing that was how it should be. Months of shared looks and hidden longing, shoved out into the open in that moment.

Jon took a step towards her, then another and another until he was mere inches away. His hands lifted, cupping her tear-stained cheeks gently. Her body shuddered at his touch, her eyes fixing on his as he gazed down at her. When he leaned in to press a long kiss to her forehead, he heard her soft sigh and felt the fight drain away from her form.

“I’ll go with you,” he whispered.

Sansa jerked as if she could not quite believe what she heard. Then she pulled away to look up at him without pushing his hands away.

“No,” she said, her voice hushed. “You cannot. You have a duty here.”

Jon brushed the loose tendrils of hair away from her face, refusing to let her push him away.

“They have Robb,” he said simply, finding it all too easy to make this decision.

It was almost as if he’d been making it every day for the last year, without even knowing. When it came down to it, there was no question.

“Jon…”

“They would have had to make the choice between us anyway. Only one can be the Lord of Winterfell when the time comes,” he said, stroking his thumb lightly over her cheek. “This makes it easy.”

“I cannot let you,” Sansa said, another tear slipping down her cheek only to catch on his fingers.

“No more than I can let you?” he asked.

She closed her eyes, huffing as she shook her head.

“Not fair,” she said faintly.

Jon tilted her chin up, waiting until she looked at him to speak again.

“If you go, I go,” he vowed, brushing his thumb along her bottom lip. “If you stay, I stay. And if you would mine, I would be yours, for the rest of our days.”

Sansa didn’t say anything for a long stretch of time, staring at him as if she could wear him down with the force of her eyes.

“You’re a fool,” she finally said when it did not work.

A smile broke out on his face and he made no attempt to deny it. Instead he ducked his head and brushed his lips over hers, sealing his vow with a kiss.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonsa prompt: post or pre parental reveal; they have secret meetings in the broken tower.

He found her in one of the least degraded rooms, her back turned to him as she gazed out at the courtyard through a glassless window. Moonlight paled her skin even more than usual and darkened her hair, giving her an otherwordly, almost ethereal look as she stared resolutely forward, giving no hint that she heard him enter the room and latch the door behind him.

Sansa allowed few words to pass her lips since his return to from the south. Most of them were layered with courtesy, welcoming Daenerys and her guests to Winterfell as of they visited the highest seat of the North simply out of a leisurely desire. For Jon, she countered most questions he had with curt responses and outright ignored the ones that she did not wish to answer.

Yet here they were, meeting in the dead of night with no one around to hear their words if they were quiet enough.

Jon braced himself for her condemnation, knowing that he more than earned it. Proclaimed King in the North and trusted to carry the weight of that with him no matter where he went, only to return with an entirely different title as he took on the nearly impossible duty of convincing northern lords that a Targaryen on the Iron Throne was far from the worst thing that could happen.

Sansa’s words would lend his cause a weight that he no longer had the ability to add himself. Distrust met him at every turn and Sansa remained a silent presence throughout every meeting. She would not answer to his soliciting looks, nor to the rage of the lords that surrounded them. Her face was carefully schooled, her eyes alert and watchful. Her ears open and listening.

Jon wished that he had a window into her mind, to see her thoughts laid out before him. He knew beyond a doubt that there was a storm beneath her careful veneer, building in intensity with each passing moment. He expected for it to be unleashed on him in full, now that they were alone for the first time. Yet she stood facing away from him, her shoulders tense yet her breaths even.

“There is something that you must know,” she finally said.

There was an underlying wariness to her voice, as if she was loathe to speak at all. Only one thing could bring such a hesitation to her words. One truth, hidden for so long.

“Sam told me.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath but she did not look at him. When she bowed her head and braced her hands upon the window’s ledge, her eyes slowly closed. Yet he could still see the odd mix of relief and uncertainty flit across her face.

“I didn’t know how I might tell you,” Sansa admitted quietly.

Jon glanced away, swallowing hard and adjusting his cloak on his shoulders simply for something to do.

“There is no good way to say it, I suppose.”

When he looked back at her, he was surprised to see that her eyes were now fixed upon him.

“Father lied to protect you,” Sansa said carefully.

“Aye,” Jon said with a nod, though he felt a hot spike of anger rise within him.

He understood his now-uncle’s side. He knew why he did what he did. Robert Baratheon would have called for his death otherwise. He did not flinch when Tywin Lannister presented him with the corpses of Elia Martell and her children, Jon’s true siblings.

“He was far better at lying than any of us thought,” he said.

“Aren’t we all?” Sansa asked, straightening up again.

Her eyes were darker in the light of a single torch, yet he could see every emotion pass through them clear as day.

“Sansa-”

“Before you left, you vowed that you would always fight for the North. No matter what,” she said, turning to face him fully. “Now you are here again and suddenly you intend to fight for  _her_.”

“We need her. We need her armies and we need her dragons,” Jon said, straightening his shoulders.

“You had no choice but to bend the knee?”

He didn’t answer, a sigh passing his lips as he closed his eyes for a moment.

“Does it matter who rules the North right now if the Night King takes it all? Because that is what will happen without her.”

Sansa’s jaw clenched as she shook her head.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that,” he said determinedly, taking a step towards her. “I would bend the knee a thousand times over if it means our people live.”

“You do not know what I had to do to keep you in their favor,” Sansa hissed, matching his step with one of her own. “They wanted to abandon you, the longer you stayed in the south, and I assured them that you had the good of our people in the forefront of your mind, always. You have not only made yourself look like a fool. Now every northern man and woman questions the honor of the Starks.”

Jon gritted his own teeth, hating that he could see truth in her words.

“That can be remedied,” he said in a low voice. “If we tell them the truth. They hate the Targaryen name as it is. It will be easy for them to disavow me when they know what I am.”

Sansa’s eyes widened ever so slightly at his words and the fury that darkened his tone.

“We can’t,” she said, her own anger slowly fading. "Not yet. Not until I find the right words. It will be hard enough to convince the northern armies to fight at your back with Daenerys Targaryen flying overhead. The lords already question your reasons for bending the knee to her. They may spurn you entirely if they find out that you are…”

Sansa trailed off, her mouth falling closed and her eyes darting away from him.

“They will be angry,” Jon said, though he could see the sense in her words.

“They’re already angry,” she said, her eyes flashing as she looked back at him. “But they are still prepared to fight. We can do nothing to change that right now. Everything is tenuous. We cannot tip the scales.”

Through his tangled thoughts and twisted emotions, he could see the sense in her words. He allowed a reluctant nod of his head and watched her shoulders rise and fall in a sigh of relief. Then she started forward, towards the door, as if she had nothing left to say in the wake of his agreement. But Jon could not let her go. Not yet.

His arm shot out and he grasped her wrist gently, keeping her from passing him. Her eyes shot up to meet his, her lips parting in surprise as he tugged her in close. Close enough to feel her breath on his face. Mere inches of space between them, tension rising even more as he stared back at her resolutely, determined to speak his mind.

“I bent the knee because we need her,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it has not changed the truth of what  _I_  need.”

Jon did not know if he imagined how she shivered, her arm twitching in own as if she could feel the heat of his touch beneath the layers she wore. Yet she did not break her gaze away from him.

“What do you need?” she asked, the blue in her eyes more apparent to him now that she stood so close.

He didn’t answer right away, his eyes darting over her face and lingering on her lips for just a short moment before meeting her eyes again.

“You.”

Sansa’s blinked slowly, surprise written across her face at the single word. So simple and honest, echoed in every beat of his heart and in every breath that he took. Then she moved, slowly and deliberately, pressing her cold hand over his cheek. Jon tilted her face into her touch, his eyes falling closed only to spring open when he felt the press of her forehead to his.

“I am here,” Sansa murmured softly. “That has not changed either.”

A sigh passed his lips, his tension draining away as he relaxed into her touch. It was impossible to know how long they stood there. Hours may well have passed but he could not bring himself to care. When she pulled away, he felt the loss of her touch. But her eyes were softer as she nodded at him before turning to the door. Jon watched her go, listening to the sound of her descending footsteps long after the door shut behind her.

Only then did he let himself breathe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case you’re still taking prompts I’ve had a HC for a while. Before the black wedding Myranda helps Sansa take a bath. I’m hoping for a parallel before the white wedding, this time with Gilly calming her nerves instead.

The warm water was murky, mixed with perfumed oils and salts that filled her chambers with a heavy fragrance. Sansa nearly felt smothered by it but she couldn’t bring herself move, even to open a window and air out the room. All she wanted to do was stay there, submerged in water, hidden from the world. A cowardly though, though she could not ride herself of it.

“Your Grace.”

A gasp slipped from her lips, her head snapping to the doorway of her bedchamber as she remembered a much different bath before a much different wedding. Myranda had been soft-spoken and her awful intent was hidden behind mild words and sweet smiles. Sansa knew enough of people to see past it all, to the violence in her eyes. So like Ramsay’s.

But Gilly was nothing like Myranda. She could be soft-spoken and yet equally bold. The fighting light in her eyes was born from a lifetime of struggle and the firm desire to protect her son. She may not have Sansa’s trust quite yet, for so few truly did, but Gilly most certainly had her respect.

“Would you open a window?” Sansa asked, sinking even lower into the water.

Gilly nodded, looking glad for something to do as she crossed the room. Sansa tilted her head back to rest against the edge of the tub, skimming her fingers over the surface of the water.

“How is your boy?” she asked once cool air began filling the room, simply for the sake of filling the silence.

“He’s good,” Gilly said, a smile breaking out over her face. “He’s speaking more every day. Sam says he’ll be like him… a-a scholar. But…”

Gilly trailed off with a shrug.

“He may yet be a fighter,” Sansa said, allowing herself a small smile. “I see how he watches the training yard when you carry him around. Arya and Jon-”

Her words cut off, her heart stuttering oddly as she breathed in a sharp inhale. Gilly must have seen the trepidation written across her face because she moved quickly, kneeling next to the tub. Sansa watched her warily, memories pushing in at the edge of her mind without her consent.

“He’ll be good to you,” Gilly said, gesturing for Sansas to lean forward so that she could work soap and oils into her hair. “Lord Snow.”

Sansa opened her mouth to correct her. The Iron Throne may have been melted down and the Seven Kingdoms separated as such but Jon was still a royal prince. It was only proper to address him as such. Yet she did not say it, for she saw how Jon flinched every time he heard it.

“I know he will be,” she said instead, hugging her knees to her chest.

Gilly didn’t say anything, though her silence spoke volumes. If anyone knew what it was like to distrust the world, unsure of whether it would tear her down to where she started, it was this woman. Different from other freefolk but with the same hardened core. Sansa knew parts of her story, different pieces that helped her form an incomplete yet deeply impactful picture.

“What was Jon like? At the Wall?” she asked.

There was no answer for a few seconds and she had the sense that she’d taken Gilly by surprise. No one really spoke of Jon’s time in the Night’s Watch, much less Jon himself. The only person who ever came closest was Tormund and he only spoke of it when he loudly told his jesting stories that caused Jon’s cheeks to flush.

“He was different than the others,” Gilly finally said, pouring a jug of water over her head to rinse it out. “Sam told me that he… he helped him. That others were cruel but Jon took his side. Made sure he was protected.”

Sansa closed her eyes, thinking of Jon when he was younger. She hardly knew him, apart from a few things. He was better with a sword than Robb, but not better on horseback. He liked a few stories, always repeating them to Bran when he asked. He laughed rarely but deeply when he did. And he kind, at heart. Deserving of far better than the life he was given.

And he would soon be her husband.

“He won’t mark you,” Gilly said bluntly, yet her voice quiet as she twisted the water from her hair, staring at the long-healed scars on her back. “He wouldn’t even touch you if you didn’t want it.”

Sansa sank her teeth into her lower lip, fighting against the emotions that welled up within her. So few people had seen the marks left behind. Gifts from Joffrey and Ramsay.

“He doesn’t know about them,” she gasped out, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “He’s never seen.”

Gilly didn’t say anything for several long moments. Sansa nearly jumped when she felt her hand brush her shoulder.

“You’re strong,” she said, nothing but forthright truth in her voice. “Your scars show it. He’ll see it too.”

Sansa glanced over her shoulder, meeting Gilly’s eyes. She had been initially hesitant to accept her as a handmaiden but now she was grateful for trusting Jon when he made the suggestion. She almost reminded her of Shae, though they were far different from one another.

“Thank you,” she said with genuine gratitude written across her face.

Gilly smiled once more, giving her a nod as she dried her hand on a cloth.

“You’re a good queen,” she said, a spark of amusement flitting through her eyes. “For a kneeler.”

Sansa couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh, accepting a sheet as she stood and stepped out of the water. It didn’t take long for her to dress, donning a dove grey gown and a white cloak. Her hair was carefully brushed by Gilly’s steady hand, falling around her shoulders in copper waves and pinned up only at her temples. As she stood before a tall looking glass, she realized that it wasn’t fear that took root in her chest, but anticipation. That was when she knew.

“I think that I am ready,” she said quietly, glancing at Gilly.

The other woman reached out, clasping her hand.

“You are.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon rescues Sansa from Ramsey but modern au please.

“Who the fuck is calling you at this hour?”

Jon huffed, shaking his head at Tormund’s half-drunk antics as he pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket. Not that he was wrong. It was rare that anyone called him at two in the morning, much less just a few hours after he got off shift. It certainly wasn’t the station and it wasn’t anyone in his contact list. Jon stared at the screen for a few moments, trying to decide whether to ignore it or not.

Something pushed him to answer. A feeling deep in his chest. Stepping away from the group as Gendry ducked a hair ruffle from Tormund and Grenn nearly ran headlong into a pole as Pyp let out a bark of laughter, Jon accepted the call and pressed the phone to his ear, a part of him hoping that it was a wrong number. All he wanted that night was a trip to his bed.

“Snow,” he said in greeting.

For a few seconds, he heard nothing but silence and had himself nearly convinced it was a telemarketer. Then he heard a sharp exhale that almost sounded like a sob. Then…

“Jon?”

He only had one beer but Jon was almost certain that the sound of the familiar voice would have sobered him up even if he was three sheets to the wind. There was no mistaking who it was, though he hadn’t spoken to her in at least three years.

“Sansa?”

She let out a shuddering breath as his blood ran cold, knowing that she couldn’t be calling for any good reason.

“I-I need help,” she said, her voice wavering as she spoke. “Please I… I need…”

“Where are you?” Jon asked, the urgency in his voice carrying to his friends, who all stopped everything to listen and watch him.

He could feel their stares on his back but he didn’t return them, too focused on her to look back. Sansa relayed two cross streets to him, causing his heart to sink in his chest. He didn’t know that she was back in the north at all, much less in the city where they were both raised. Last he heard, she was heading south.

“I’ll be there,” he promised. “Just stay where you are.”

Jon had no idea what was going on but it was fairly clear that she was in trouble. He couldn’t turn his back on that. Not ever.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice breaking.

“Stay where you are,” Jon told her again.

He waited for her to tearfully assure him that she would before hanging up, darting towards the street to wave down a cab.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked, the first of his friends to edge closer.

“It’s-” Jon shook his head, inhaling the cool night air deeply. “I have to go help someone.”

“Okay,” Sam said, his eyes darting over Jon’s face. “Do you want someone to come with you?”

He considered it for a brief moment, wondering if he should. But Jon shook his head eventually. This wasn’t something that he could do with someone else. It wasn’t fair to Sansa to bring people along that she didn’t know. He had no idea what he was walking into with her but he wouldn’t do anything to spook her when she already sounded terrified.

“I’ll call you if I need you,” he assured Sam.

His closest friend nodded, though he didn’t look completely satisfied.

“Gilly’s working the night shift,” he told Jon, nodding at him.

Jon gave Sam a brief smile, grateful for the information. As an empty cab pulled to the curb, he gave Sam a pat on the shoulder and waved to the others before climbing into the back as quickly as he could. Jon gave the driver the cross streets that Sansa told him, sitting back against the seat with a bouncing leg as they pulled away from the curb.

It was easy to cross the city at this time of night. it helped that Jon was half in a daze, only pulling out of his tangled thoughts when the cab slowed to a stop and the driver gave a very pointed clear of his throat, staring at Jon through the rearview mirror. He muttered an apology, tossing a few twenties his way before clambering out, his ears buzzing and his body almost numb as his feet found the pavement.

Jon turned in circles, peering around desperately. When he finally spotted a flash of auburn hair beneath a street lamp, his relief nearly crushed him. She wasn’t alone, leaning against the outside wall of a drug store with a tall woman next to her, a hand on her shoulder. Jon didn’t hesitate to bolt across the street, not even caring enough to look for cars. All he could think of was the critical need to get to her.

“Sansa?”

Her head snapped up, her eyes growing wide as she pushed away from the wall and stumbled towards him. Before she could get far, the woman stepped between them, a wary look on her face. Her protective stance spoke volumes and Jon didn’t think before fumbling in his pockets, pulling out his badge to flash it in her direction.

“I’m a detective,” he said, watching the woman’s tension ease. 

As she stepped aside, Sansa didn’t even say anything, throwing herself into his arms with a choked sob once he pocketed his badge. He caught her easily, his hand cradling the back of her head as she buried her face into his shoulder. He could feel her body trembling beneath the coat she wore, her hands gripping relentlessly at his own jacket.

“You came,” she managed between heaving breaths, her voice shaking as well.

“Course I did,” he said, impulsively pressing a kiss to the side of her head.

Sansa muffled a whimper into his neck, her tears wetting his skin as she folded herself even tighter into his embrace. As he glanced up, he saw the woman watching them with indecision on her face, as if she couldn’t quite decide what to think of their display. There was something else there, a grave sadness that he couldn’t quite understand. Somehow, Jon knew that he had to look at Sansa. He had to see to know.

Pulling away, he gently lifted her head and the rage that coursed through him nearly knocked him to his knees. Her eye was bruised and her lip split. Not only that, but he realized that she wasn’t just shaking from her tears. Beneath the coat she wore, far too large to be her own, all that she had on was a faded t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts.

It was clear that she’d left somewhere in a hurry. There were more bruises on her thighs, painting a clear picture that he would rather not imagine. Sansa looked away from him, lowering her head and withdrawing into herself. Jon didn’t allow it, pulling her back into his arms without a second thought. He couldn’t let her go. Not after what he’d seen.

“God Sansa,” he sighed out, holding her more gently now that he knew she was hurt. “We have to get you out of this cold.” 

“I tried,” the woman said, stepping forward. “She insisted on waiting out here for you.”

Jon looked at her again, wondering if she was some sort of Good Samaritan.

“Brienne gave me her phone,” Sansa said, her voice small and muffled as she refused to move her face where it was pressed to his shoulder. “Robb-Robb made me and Arya memorize your number so long ago, in case we got in trouble and he couldn’t get to us. I-I just hoped… I hoped that you hadn’t changed it.”

He let out a slow breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he silently thanked his best friend, knowing that he looked after Sansa even now, though he was long dead.

“Thank you,” he said to this woman, Brienne.

She nodded at him before opening her mouth to speak.

“She needs a hospital. I can give you a ride, if you need it.”

Sansa flinched in his arms but didn’t protest.

“I’ll take care of you,” Jon murmured, stroking his hand through her tangled hair. “I promise.”

She relaxed only slightly, nodding her head as best she could.

“Just don’t leave,” Sansa breathed out pleadingly.

“Never.”

*****

He sat in the back of a car that smelled faintly of a pine air freshener and leather, Sansa tucked firmly into his side without any care for seatbelt laws. Brienne drove them quickly yet carefully, not wanting to cause an accident with any haste. Sansa must have been exhausted because it took mere minutes for her eyes to slip closed and her breaths to even out. They weren’t far from the hospital but Jon refused to begrudge her any peace.

“I was shopping around when she walked in,” Brienne said quietly, glancing over her shoulder at them. “That’s my coat she’s wearing. She didn’t look as if she was even aware of the cold. It’s a miracle she even had shoes on. All she wanted was… well… she was practically hysterical. Others tried to calm her but every time a man got close, she panicked even more. I eventually got her away from the others and gave her my coat. When I asked if there was anyone she could call, all she said was your name. I assume you’re Jon Snow.”

He nodded slowly, feeling his anger ebb and flow as he thought of the many things he’d like to do to whoever hurt her like this.

“Thank you,” he said again.

Brienne didn’t respond, looking almost uncomfortable with his gratitude as she shifted in her seat.

“There were two closer hospitals to where we were,” she said, her eyes narrowing almost critically. “Why this one?”

“A friend of mine works as a nurse there. I trust her,” he answered.

Brienne took a moment before nodding her understanding. They pulled up to the emergency bay not long after.

“If you need anything,” Brienne said, scrawling her phone number out on an old receipt and handing it back. “If  _she_  does.”

Jon took it with a nod, tucking it away into the pocket of his coat before gently shaking Sansa awake, hating the whimpering protest she made as she jerked away from him.

“It’s okay,” he assured her as her exhausted eyes darted around fearfully. “We’re here.”

Sansa glanced out of the window at the red glowing sign of the emergency room, swallowing hard and nodding. Her eyes cut to Brienne as her slim, pale hands lifted to pull the jacket from her shoulders.

“It’s yours,” she said when Brienne tried to protest. “You’ve done enough for me.”

Jon watched as she laid the coat out gently over the seat, fury rising once more when he saw more bruises and even a few scars on her arms. Sansa didn’t notice, giving Brienne an empty smile.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Brienne said, looking just as uncomfortable yet less willing to ignore the gratitude.

Jon climbed out first, helping Sansa and hating how she shivered at the brisk wind that picked up around them. It didn’t take much to rush her inside and he watched as her cheeks reddened at her exposed state, though there were few people in the waiting room.

“Is Gilly here?” he asked the receptionist before she could even greet him.

Her face twisted disdainfully at his curt words before she glanced past him and saw Sansa, bruised and shaking. Then her eyes widened.

“Miss?” she said, standing up as her eyes took in Sansa’s appearance, wounds and all.

Then the receptionist looked at Jon, worry and condemnation written across her face. Sansa saw it too, grasping Jon’s arm and half-hiding behind him.

“He didn’t,” she said quietly, though her words were firm. “He didn’t do this.”

The woman looked doubtful but Jon didn’t have time for her, pulling out his badge for the second time that night.

“Gilly,” he said insistently, showing her his detective’s shield.

The woman’s lips thinned out but she picked up the phone out of its cradle, quickly dialing an extension. Jon blocked her out, turning to face Sansa as he stripped his own jacket from his shoulders.

“Jon,” Sansa sighed, shaking her head as if to refuse him.

He wouldn’t hear of it, placing it around her shoulders as he led her to sit. She moved gingerly, each wince and grit of her teeth filed away in the back of his mind. Jon hadn’t asked her any of the thousand questions he had. Not even the most important one. The one that would hold someone accountable. He intended to, but he knew it wasn’t the time.

“I didn’t know you were a detective now,” Sansa said, pulling his jacket tight around her as she curled her legs beneath her.

“I got my shield about a year ago,” he said, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles.

A small smile tugged at her lips.

“You’re good at it, I bet,” she said, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “You were always like Dad. Everything had to be  _right_  for you. Always fair and good.”

Jon’s cheeks warmed at her words. He couldn’t imagine a better compliment than comparing him to Ned Stark. A man that he admired more than words could describe. A man that he missed every day.

“You look like your mother,” Jon said, though it wasn’t altogether true.

Sansa’s hair was lighter than Catelyn’s and her skin fairer. There was something in the design of her face and the weight in her bright blue eyes that reminded him of Ned too. Though she opened her mouth to speak, Sansa was saved from responding when the door to the rest of the hospital pushed open and a familiar face in light green scrubs pushed through.

“Jon?” Gilly said, her eyes wide with fear. “Is it Sam? Is he-?”

“He’s fine,” Jon assured her, pushing to his feet.

He regretted calling for her so hurriedly, knowing that her mind would go to her husband first. Relief flitted across her face before she glanced past him and saw Sansa, still curled on the chair and watching them with round eyes.

“Oh,” Gilly said, stepping around him.

“This is Sansa,” Jon said, watching as she unfolded herself and pushed to her feet with a wince. “I… I hoped that you might…”

“Yes,” Gilly said, determination taking hold of her. “Come with me. We’ll take care of you.”

Sansa’s eyes darted to Jon, alarm in her gaze.

“I won’t leave,” he reminded her.

She nodded, pushing her hands into the pockets of his jacket as she followed Gilly through the door with Jon right on her heels.

*****

He stayed tense and silent throughout Sansa’s visit, standing at her side as she relayed her medical history and went through each and every wound that needed care. Wounds that went far deeper than he even knew. Wounds and cuts in places he couldn’t see. He turned his back when it came time for her exam, listening to her breath hitch as Gilly and the doctor treated her as gently as they could.

Jon insisted that they call the department, knowing that he was too close to the case to handle it. No matter how much he wanted to be the one to bring this monster to justice. There was no only one thing that stood between them and an arrest, even with the photographic evidence that they now had. Sansa wouldn’t say a name. Fear filled her eyes and she withdrew into herself when Gilly asked.

He knew that it had to be done before the detectives got to the hospital or else they wouldn’t be able to do a thing. Once they were left alone to wait for the detectives, Sansa dressed in a set of scrubs and a sweater of Gilly’s, Jon glanced her way and saw her carefully plaiting her hair with a distant expression on her face.

“You can ask,” she said quietly, her voice laden with exhaustion. “You have every right. I dragged you into this.”

“I’m not going to make you talk about anything,” Jon refused, leaning his back against the wall.

Sansa glanced his way, her eyes darting over him before she looked away again.

“He found my birth control,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “My friend helped me get it. She always tried to get me to report him but… well she insisted that I take it. He found it and he threw it all away. Then he-”

Sansa cut off, shaking her head as a pained look came over her face. The bruises on her thighs more than told the rest of the story. Jon didn’t have to hear it. His jaw tightened as he focused on keeping his breathing steady, choosing to marvel at her strength instead of letting his anger at a faceless man overtake him.

“I couldn’t let him do that to me,” she said, her voice breaking as tears filled her eyes once more. “I just-I couldn’t let him tie me to him in that way. I waited until  he was asleep and I-I ran. I couldn’t even breathe. I don’t remember putting on shoes. I just remember focusing on one thing. I had to find a pill.”

Jon could fill in the rest himself. As she pressed her face into her hands and let out a shuddering sob, he crossed the room and carefully wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest.

“They would be so ashamed of me,” Sansa cried, her body heaving with her sobs. “Mother and-and Father and Robb. They would…”

She turned her face, muffling her cries into his shirt once more. Jon let her, pressing kisses to her hair.

“They wouldn’t,” he assured her, knowing that beyond a shadow of a doubt. “They would be blown away by your strength, Sansa. I know that I am.”

Sansa didn’t say anything for a long stretch of time, letting her emotions flow as he simply held her. As her tears finally slowed and her body began to tremble less, she turned her head and sniffled, wiping at her face with the sleeve of the sweater she wore.

“I don’t ever want to see him again,” she whispered.

“You won’t,” Jon said with certainty. “Never again. You just… you have to tell us his name, Sansa. We can’t do anything unless you-”

“Ramsay Bolton.”

He jolted at her words, realizing that she’d finally admitted to it. Relief quickly followed, that they could do something about it. Then he realized why she must have been so desperate to keep it to herself. The Bolton name wasn’t quite as well known as the Starks but the family had their share of notoriety and skeletons in their closet. As much as he wanted to know how Sansa could wind up entangled with one of them, Jon knew that was a story for another time.

“I won’t ever let him touch you again,” he promised.

Sansa didn’t say anything, simply pressing closer to him. Jon had to hope that meant she believed him, because the words rang truer than any he’d ever spoken before. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you’re still taking prompts, I’d love to see a post parentage reveal and pre battle with the White Walkers where Sansa is the first out of the two to admit her feelings. A sort of ‘the world is ending so it’s now or never, by the I’m madly in love with you’ kind of deal.

She rapped her knuckles against the door as lightly as she could manage, closing her eyes and bracing herself for silence to answer her knock. There was every chance that he was with Daenerys, spending the last few moments before battle in her warm, beautiful embrace. He assured her that it was all for the North, for the sake of their people, but Sansa couldn’t imagine any man refusing the chance to warm the Dragon Queen’s bed.

Especially if there was every chance he may die.

Yet she heard him call for her to enter, hearing him shuffle about on the other side of the thick door. There was a part of her that ached to flee. To change her mind and run far and fast before he could see her. But instead, she took a deep breath and smoothed out her skirts carefully before opening the door, her eyes catching on him as soon as she stepped through.

He stood near the window, his armor laid out on the table as he slowly donned each piece. As his eyes lifted, surprise filled their dark depths and his lips parted slightly, as if her name might slip through them. Yet he didn’t say a word. Sansa could hardly blame him for his astonishment. Every interaction between them had been tense, to say the least, since he returned from the south. 

She wanted to blame it on the sense of betrayal that churned her stomach when Daenerys stood so close to him. Or on the knowledge that everything was different now that he was her cousin, not her half-brother. In truth, his parentage brought her a measure of relief. A relief that drove her here, to this door, knowing that this may well be last time she saw him.

Sansa did not know what to say. How to excuse her presence. So she strode forward instead, keeping her chin tipped upwards and her eyes fixed on him. Jon half-turned towards her, as if he expected either a smack or an embrace. Sansa gave him neither, instead taking the role of squire as she began helping him into his armor.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly, even as she tightened straps and adjusted the pieces.

She swallowed hard, relieved to have a task that she could focus upon.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “I just… I…”

Sansa trailed off, glancing up into his eyes. Jon stared back at her, something indefinable in his gaze. They both grew still, caught in the moment. In each other’s eyes. In the inexplicable tension that rose between them every time they were in a room together. It hadn’t always been this way. The truth of his parentage stirred something up between them. Something unspoken and dangerous.

More dangerous than anything she knew.

“I’m glad you came,” Jon said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sansa’s eyes darted over his face, trying to find something there. An answer. A reciprocation. Anything that might tell her how he felt beyond vague platitudes. He didn’t give away anything, his emotions shuttered away from her. So she offered him a simple nod and returned to her task, making sure everything was fastened just right.

“How do you know how to armor a man?” Jon asked.

A ghost of a smile passed over her lips as she crossed to his other side.

“My skills are quite varied, in case you hadn’t noticed,” she said simply.

A beat of silence passed before he answered.

“I have.”

A shiver of  _something_  curled up her spine as Sansa inhaled deeply, wondering if she was simply imagining the fervor in his voice. If her heart craved his requited love so much that she’d hear it whether it existed or not. Stepping away from him, her eyes fell to the final piece. Jon reached out to take hold of his sword belt. Sansa gazed at the Valyrian steel blade, brushing her fingers over the direwolf that topped the pommel.

_Protect him_ , she prayed silently, to both the sword she touched and the direwolf that it was fashioned after. When Jon’s hand brushed over hers, she lifted her head and caught his gaze once more. He stared back at her, his eyes filled with caution and sorrow. They both knew from the moment that the horn sounded that this could be the end. Sansa had already made her peace with the others that she loved. This was her last stop. Her last chance.

“You must return,” she whispered, almost too afraid to speak them loudly, as if the gods would see it as a challenge.

Jon blinked slowly, a heaviness settling over his face. Sansa knew that he wouldn’t say anything. That he wouldn’t promise her. Not when fate could very well break that promise without caring for what either of them wanted. Instead he lifted his hand, brushing a loose lock of hair away from her face. His thumb stroked at her cheek as she closed her eyes, relishing in the simplest touch.

“Sansa…” Jon breathed.

Her eyes fluttered open again but she didn’t get a chance to hear what he would say. Another horn sounded and she flinched at the sound, knowing what it meant. A call to arms. It was time. He pressed his lips together, giving her a nod and grabbing Longclaw to fasten it at his waist. Sansa watched with stinging eyes, clasping her hands in front of her as her heart raced.

“I love you.”

Jon stilled once more, his head bowed and his body rigid, thrown by the suddenness of her confession. Sansa couldn’t bring herself to regret it. The consequences didn’t matter. Not now. Not when their world could very well end this night.

“I had to tell you,” she said, taking a step away from him.

Then she turned, knowing that she couldn’t bear seeing any trace of rejection or disgust upon his face. But Sansa didn’t even make it to the door before his hand seized upon her arm, spinning her around with a gasp. Any words that rose in her throat were forgotten as soon as she felt the press of his lips against hers. Sansa lifted her hands to his shoulders without a second thought, returning the kiss in kind.

It lasted forever and yet ended far too soon, their eyes colliding once more as they both breathed heavily. Jon’s eyes seemed set ablaze, holding hers with an intensity that snatched her heart right out of her chest. If she had any doubt that it belonged to him before, it was gone now. Sansa couldn’t bring herself to hope, not when she knew that death knocked on Winterfell’s gates even as they stood there, still entangled in one another.

“Do you understand?” Jon asked, his voice rough and desperate.

Sansa stared at him for a long moment before nodding her head.

“I do.”

He looked far from satisfied but it would just have to be enough. Sansa stepped aside, lifting her trembling fingers to brush over her tingling lips, watching as he took a deep breath before allowing himself one final look. He held her gaze for a few seconds before nodding once. Then he was gone, his footsteps fading away as she stood there, fixed in place and trying to hold onto the memory of his kiss.

It may be his last gift to her and she refused to let it fade from her mind.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you're still taking fic prompts, could you please write one after the Battle, where Jon discovers Alys' dead body burned by dragon fire and thinks it's Sansa's because of her hair and her unrecognizable facial features?

The first thing that he saw as he stumbled into the godswood, body aching with exhaustion and sword held loosely in his hand, was the still, bloodied form of Theon Greyjoy. An unexpected sadness struck at his chest. A feeling of mourning, for the boy he grew up with and the man that came back around to who he was meant to be. He deserved to be mourned. Jon hoped that he found peace. Then the moonlight breaking through the trees above dimly illuminated a spill of auburn hair across the forest floor.

And Jon’s heart seized in his chest.

She wasn’t meant to be there. He knew that she insisted on standing with the archers along the battlements for as long as she could but Arya promised him that she’d convince Sansa to go to the crypts if the fighting got too close to the castle. Not here. Longclaw slipped between his fingers as he stared and stared at that hair, matted with blood and filth and even singed by fire. It was all wrong. She shouldn’t have been there, lying on the cold earth, still in death.

The roaring in his ears was as loud as any that Drogon uttered. Jon couldn’t bring himself to move, froze in place as dark spots edged at the corner of his vision from the air his lungs refused to breathe in. Then something collided with him hard, sending him stumbling as hands seized his shoulders and grey eyes so much like his own locked him in an intense stare. They were speaking, or perhaps even shouting, but their words were distant and muddled as if he was hearing it all underwater.

Arya shook him hard as his eyes darted to the blood that trickled down her temple. Awareness slowly crept back in and Jon forced himself to inhale, his burning chest expanding as his body swayed on the spot. She kept him upright, looking close to outright slapping him. Then he looked to the body lying a few feet away and Arya followed the path of his gaze, flinching before understanding dawned on her face as she realized what he saw.

“It’s… Karstark… not… the crypts… look at… breathe… Jon… fucking dammit!”

Her fists slammed into his chest, jolting him back to reality all at once.

“Sansa,” Jon gasped, trying to dart around her.

“She’s in the crypts,” Arya all but yelled, moving to block his way. “She’s safe.”

Jon looked at her, truly looked, and saw the wetness on her pale cheeks and the way that her body trembled. Then he reached for her, yanking her into his arms. Arya crushed herself to him, burying her face in his chest as her hands gripped at him. Tucking his cheek against her head, Jon stared past her towards the heart tree, where Bran sat still alive and breathing. He gave a slow nod, telling Jon everything that he needed to know without even speaking.

“You did it, didn’t you?” he asked quietly.

Arya shuddered before pulling away to look at him, her eyes wet with tears. In that moment more than any other, she looked more like the young girl he knew, all those years ago.

“I was almost too late,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jon reached up, cupping the back of her head gently.

“You saved us all.”

A smile broke out on Arya’s face as her shoulders slumped like a burden had been lifted away by his words.

“We need to find Sansa,” she said, stepping back. “She’ll want to know that we’re alright.”

Jon nodded, swallowing hard and stepping around her to walk to Bran. He glanced at what he now knew to be Alys Karstark’s body. Jon felt guilty for the relief he felt, knowing that she deserved to live just as much as every other person. He pushed the thoughts aside, knowing that there would be time to mourn in the coming days. Bran remained quiet as they made their way through the darkness, Arya leading them without a hitch in her step.

A scene of quiet chaos greeted them once they reached the courtyard. Some were embracing friends or family, others sitting alone to contemplate everything that happened that night. There were tears of grief and smiles of shared survival all around. Jon exhaled a sigh of relief when he spotted Sam clutching at Gilly and little Sam with all the desperation of a man that faced death and lived. The feeling was short lived, however, when he saw the blood spattered on Gilly’s face.

It wasn’t right. She shouldn’t have been harmed at all. Jon felt his panic return, constricting his lungs and pulling a choked noise from his throat. Arya looked his way with wide eyes as he looked around, searching for the others that sought refuge in the crypts. There were fewer than there should have been. Women and children that looked equally battle worn to those that fought above. Tyrion and Varys weaved through the fallen and the living with weary looks on their faces.

Tyrion had scratches down his cheek and his clothing was askew. A dragonglass dagger was still gripped in his hand, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to let it go. Jon let go of Bran’s chair, stumbling over to them desperately. He almost couldn’t bring himself to speak, reading the uncertainty on their own faces as he neared. They would have their own questions. Who survived and how did it end? Jon didn’t have the patience to answer any of them. He only wanted to know one thing.

“Where is Sansa?”

Tyrion stepped forward, finally letting the dagger fall to the ground.

“The crypts,” he said, a familiar exhaustion in his words. “Last I saw her.”

Jon didn’t linger, setting off at a run without a thought for his own weariness. He was prepared to sprint through each passage of the crypts without hesitation but stumbled to a stop at the sight of a crumpled figure several feet outside of the door. She was braced against the wall, her face in her hands and her vibrant hair spilling around her shoulders. At the sound of his approach, she looked up with red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

Her eyes darted over him quickly as he did the same to her, taking in the rumpled state of her dress, the cut on her chin, and the haunted terror still written into her bright eyes. He’d never seen her so undone and she’d never looked so beautiful to him. Her face crumpled as she looked away from him towards the crypt door, grooves scratched into the heavy wood by desperate fingers.

Sansa pressed a hand over her mouth as a choked sob rose in her throat. Jon knelt next to her quickly, lifting his hand to careful tilt her face towards him. Sansa collapsed into him, her head laying on his shoulder as her body shook with the force of her cries. He didn’t say anything, every beat of his heart rejoicing that she was alive. Jon held her close and pressed kisses into her hair, wishing that he could have spared her whatever happened in the crypts.

“I-I heard them,” she choked out, squeezing her eyes shut. “They screamed for mercy, for someone to let them through the door. I listened as they died. I should have… I  _could_  have done something. I could have saved them.”

“Or you would have died,” Jon said quietly, knowing now where those scratches came from.

Sansa shuddered in his arms and turned her face into his shoulder before speaking.

“The dead rose,” she gasped out.

All at once, Jon realized exactly what must have happened. The Night King raising his arms, summoning every fallen fighter to join his army. It never occurred to him that the same might happen in the crypts. How horrible it must have been, to be faced with generations of Starks rising from their resting places to attack those who should have been safe. It hadn’t been his idea to send the non-fighters to the crypts but Jon should have known better. He should have warned them.

“Gods,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry, Sansa.”

She shook her head, pressing even closer to him.

“You’re here,” she murmured, clutching at his jerkin. “You’re alive.”

Jon dropped his face into her hair, breathing her in as he let his eyes fall closed.

“We both are.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonsa fluffy once they’re married as king and queen in the north please

With half a dozen rousing toasts still ringing in her ears and a smile still playing about her lips, Sansa found herself wandering through the dim corridors of Winterfell long after the feast ended. She expected that Jon would call upon her once he saw the Free folk out to their tents beyond the walls of Winterfell but time passed and his knock never came.

Sansa found him in the Great Hall, seated at one of the lower tables with his crown laid in front of him. His hand rubbed at his forehead and his shoulders slumped in a familiar symptom of his undoubtedly brooding thoughts. Her slippers quieted her steps yet he still tilted his head towards her, ever the alert warrior. Sansa reached out as she neared him, laying her hand gently over his shoulder.

“I can think of far warmer places to mope,” she said, the unlit braziers allowing a chill to fill the hall and seep through the fine dress she had yet to shed.

Even though she couldn’t see his expression, Sansa could tell that Jon pulled a face at her words as his hand lowered to the table.

“I’m not moping.”

“Contemplating your future, then?” she asked, amusement lingering at the edge of her words. “The King in the North once more.”

Jon let out a low, nonsense grumble, clearly wanting no reminder of it. Leaning down with a smile pulling at her lips, Sansa lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“I do not think that you can shed the title so easily this time.”

Jon reached up to clasp her hand, bringing it over his shoulder to brush a kiss along her knuckles.

“A burden I can easily bear with a queen at my side,” he said, turning in his seat to look up at her.

His dark eyes flitted to her auburn hair, where a crown of her own sat nestled there for most of the night, now left to sit upon her vanity. Sansa gave him a tender look, brushing his dark curls out of his eyes.

“You say that as if you won’t sneak off to the training yard every chance you get,” she said, teasing him lightly. “I think perhaps you are the one man in Westeros who is all too willing to give your wife the power if only to be left alone.”

Sansa expected him to scoff and roll his eyes or perhaps even laugh. Instead, his eyes grew soft and his lips parted just slightly. As if she had a window into his mind, she felt as though she knew his thoughts. Married in the godswood and coronated as King and Queen in the North all within a fortnight. More than enough to feel overwhelmed and yet she felt all too relaxed here.

“My wife,” Jon murmured, reaching out to take hold of her hip, guiding her to sit on the table in front of him as he scooted his chair back. “I’d be the smartest man in the Seven Kingdoms if I granted you every scrap of power I could. You’re better suited to it than I.”

Sansa pressed her lips together, pressing her palm over his cheek.

“It’s not power I want, Jon.”

He tilted his head into her hand, a look of contentment chasing the stress from his face.

“Lemon cakes, then,” Jon said, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “As many as I can find.”

Sansa gave him an affectionate shake of her head, leaning down to brush a kiss over his lips.

“My home, my family…” she said, pulling away briefly only to kiss him again. “… and you.”

Jon gazed up at her, something like awe in the depths of his eyes.

“That is all?” he asked.

Sansa gave him a nod.

“That is all.”

Jon smiled at her, a true smile that had been missing from his face as of late. Sansa loved the sight of it, hoping that he found reason to smile that way every day of his life from here on out.

“There is only one thing that might make me happier,” she told him.

Jon tilted his head questioningly as she slipped from the table, reaching back to take hold of his crown.

“My husband in my bed.”

Sansa reached her hand out as she stood, waiting for him to take it. Though it took some time to find their way to their chambers, she couldn’t bring herself to complain. For a kiss was far better than a smile and a dozen of them chased any thought of cold from her mind.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how about end of the battle, Jon is going nuts looking for Sansa after he heard of the Crypts situation and when he got there she was not there and when he finds her he gets heartbroken when he sees her crying over Theon's body.

It wasn’t easy, tripping and stumbling her way through the dark godswood. Sansa knew the way to the heart tree well but with the stench of blood and fire filling her nose and her mind still grappling with all that had happened that night, including the confrontation with her own ancestors, it took all she had to make her way through the trees.

Only the dimmest glow of firelight drew her in, relief unfurling in her chest as she hurried towards it, hitching her skirts up so that she could run. Stumbling into the clearing, a sharp sigh passed her lips once she saw Arya and Bran there, both alive conversing quietly. At her approach, their heads turned and even Bran looked consoled by the sight of her.

Then Sansa saw the bodies.

Ironborn and northmen alike, all fallen in defense of her brother. She searched their faces with a racing heart, her mind going blank as soon as she spotted him. Distantly, she heard Arya call her name as she staggered to him, her throat constricting as she fell on his knees at his side. His eyes were open and unseeing, blood running from his mouth to his chin and tears still wet on his cheeks.

Sansa reached up but could not bring herself to touch him as her eyes stung and her lower lip trembled. Both hands hovered over his chest, her chest rising and falling quickly as breathing became difficult. A choked sob slipped from her lips as she shook her head, closing her eyes as if it would make it all go away. As if she’d open them and Theon would be alive again.

A heartbroken wail fell from her lips when she opened her eyes and saw him still lying there. For all that they’d been through, both apart and together, she deserved to see him live after this. He deserved more time. A chance to see Winterfell rebuilt. To share in their victory, as bitter as it seemed. A chance to see his sister again and to visit the sea once more.

Shouts rose up in the distance, one voice rising above the rest, calling out her name. Sansa didn’t even hear it, shaking her head as trembling cries rose from deep within her chest and filled the air. She couldn’t remember the last time that she cried this way. Perhaps in the solitude of her chambers after they buried Rickon in the crypts.

A hand brushed at her shoulder and she shrank away without thinking. Comfort wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want to hear pity or apologies for this loss. She didn’t want it to be a loss at all. It quite simply couldn’t be true. Not when she’d sat with him mere hours ago, sharing soft words and small smiles over hot soup.

Branches cracked and leaves crunched beneath running footsteps and she barely heard whoever it was stagger over to her. A scuffle as Arya embraced him then a murmur of her name as he knelt at her side. Sansa leaned away from him, finally letting her hands fall to Theon’s chest. There was no movement. No rise and fall that suggested life remained in his body.

“We-we have to do something,” she choked out, pressing her hands more firmly to him. “He has to… I-I can’t…  _please.”_

Her words hitched out of her between sobs as tears slipped down her cheeks endlessly. Jon reached out to touch her elbow, trying to guide her towards him.

“Sansa-”

“No,” she cut him off, shaking her head more vehemently. “No, this cannot… I won’t allow it. There has to be something. Something I can do.”

“There’s not,” Jon said quietly.

She let out a wrenching sob, tipping forward until her forehead pressed over Theon’s unbeating heart. Words failed her as she simply cried, letting out every emotion she’d kept buried deep inside over the last several years. Tears of anguish, rage, and hopelessness falling from her eyes as she screamed out her agony as loud as she could, refusing to silence herself.

Sansa was barely aware of two sets of hands pulling her away, guiding to her feet as she weakly tried to struggle away. Arya and Jon were insistent, turning her around until she found herself pressed close into his side, her head cradled against his shoulder as he wrapped an arm firmly around her waist. The creak of Bran’s chair followed them, Arya guiding it through the godswood as Jon led her along.

“We can’t leave him there,” Sansa cried, trying to look back only for Jon to quietly assure her that they wouldn’t.

“We’ll take care of him,” he promised.

Sansa let her head fall to his shoulder, her body shaking as she stumbled alongside him, knowing that she couldn’t walk alone even if she tried.

“I’m so tired of loss.”

Jon’s breath hitched at her words, his head tilting towards hers as he hesitated just outside of the godswood.

“You need rest,” he told her gently.

Sansa lifted her head to look in his eyes, realizing that beneath all of the grief, she felt relieved that he was alive as well, though bloodied and exhausted.

“We all do,” she said.

It was the last she spoke that night, allowing him to guide her to her chambers and barely shedding her cloak before she fell into her bed, wetting her pillow with her tears for a long time before a troubled sleep swept her away.

*****

She woke to the sound of soft breaths and low humming. Sansa sat up slowly, her body aching and her eyes still burning from all the crying she did. Sweeping her gaze over the room, she spotted a familiar face loading more wood into the fire. Confusion filled her as she began to push the furs away before her attention fell on yet another person.

Jon had dragged a chair over to the bed and he sat slumped in it, his head tilted down towards his chest as he slept. Her heart flipped as she stared at him, unable to quite understand why he was there. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gilly straighten up and take notice of her, a surprised noise coming from her. Looking her way, Sansa had to hope that her face betrayed her confusion because she couldn’t find her voice.

“I asked if it’d be alright,” she said quietly, walking over to the bed after offering a wobbling curtsy. “Sam said you’d likely not mind but I know that… well, your handmaiden…”

Sansa inhaled sharply, remembering the screams as the dead rose and dug out of their resting places. Of course, she’d forgotten until now that her lady’s maid was among the fallen.

“Thank you,” she managed to say, her voice hoarse as she felt the rawness of her throat.

“He’s been here for hours, far as I know,” Gilly said, nodding to Jon. “Wouldn’t hear of resting anywhere else. Not that I’m surprised. He ran about like a madman when we came out of the crypts, shouting your name and stopping anyone that might know where you were. It was Sam that told him you’d passed by on your way to the godswood. He thought you might be dead till then. The thought of it tore him right apart.”

Her eyes grew wide as Sansa stared at her, grappling with the new information.

“Sorry, milady,” she muttered, bowing her head. “I ramble when my nerves get to me. Is there anything I can get for you?”

Sansa shook her head, casting her eyes towards Jon again before looking back at her.

“Go, be with your son.”

Relief passed over Gilly’s face and she nodded, turning away. Pausing at the door, she looked back towards Jon.

“He’s a good man,” she said, nodding at him. “He’s deserved this rest for a long time.”

Sansa watched her go before looking to Jon again. After a long time simply staring at him, she carefully slipped from her bed and rose on unsteady feet, reaching out to shake at his shoulder. He woke quickly, inhaling sharply as he jerked up, his hand going to the sword that was no longer strapped to his belt.

“Peace,” Sansa said quietly, bracing her hands on his shoulders. “It’s only me.”

Jon’s eyes fixed upon her, wild with fear and intensity. Slowly, it faded away until he let out a quiet sigh and reached up to rub at his eyes.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

Sansa shook her head, refusing to hear it. Drawing him in close, she buried her face in his neck as she wound her arms around him, needing to both give and receive comfort in that moment. He embraced her in return without hesitation.

“Come lie down,” she whispered after a few moments.

Jon stiffened slightly, pulling away to give her a wary look.

“That’s not…”

“I don’t care,” Sansa said, shaking her head as she pushed away any worries over impropriety. “I don’t want to be alone and I won’t allow you to stiffen your back in that chair.”

Jon looked no less hesitant as she drew him towards the bed but he relented, lying uncomfortably atop the furs. Sansa didn’t argue, finding it hard to even keep herself moving as she laid at his side. After a moment, she reached between them to take his hand, twining her fingers with his.

“Don’t leave me,” she said in a shuddering whisper.

Jon didn’t answer right away, only squeezing her hand after a moment. Then, as her eyes slipped closed, she heard his quiet murmur.

“Never.”

 


End file.
